“Answer me on your Bond, then. Do you elect to serve as the experimental subject for the evaluation of Koscuisko’s new speak-serum, in lieu of other Class Two discipline?”
Of all the things Joslire had imagined having gone between Koscuisko and Tutor Chonis, none of them had touched on such a potential escape. Koscuisko had gone to Chonis to bargain with him, Joslire had known that all along. But for the bargain to have been made, and in this format . . .
“Yes, your Excellency. Experimental duty, new drug for the Classified List. On my Bond, as I hope for the Day, I so elect. Sir.”
This was too far beyond the realm of possibility to be happening. It made no sense. Why did Clellelan think that it made a difference? The drugs on the Controlled List were every bit as brutal as discipline administered at the Seventh Level for a Class Two violation.
“You have elected to test Student Koscuisko’s new speak-serum, in order to provide additional resources for the Jurisdiction’s Controlled List. There is now the issue of Student Koscuisko’s Class Two claim.”
Except that the Administrator consistently specified Koscuisko’s new drug, and had read the complete description into the Record. Not just a new drug for the Controlled List. Student Koscuisko’s new speak-serum for the Controlled List. Speak-sera were not nerve factors, were not wake-keepers, were not pain-maintenance drugs. Speak-sera were only speak-sera, even though they were on the Controlled List. And many of them weren’t even fatal.
“Student Koscuisko has requested the adjudication of discipline at the aggrieved officer’s level. The Administration finds his request reasonable and responsible. The Class Two
violation cried against you by Student Koscuisko will therefore be struck from the Record, and Student Koscuisko will exercise the Judicial function at the Class One violation level.”
What could it mean?
“Your Excellency. By my Bond. It is just and judicious that he do so. As I hope for the Day.”
Robert hadn’t committed any Class Two violations. And even had he done Koscuisko would not have referred it to punishment, at least not in his current state of mind. But Tutor Chonis wouldn’t have made that up.
“Very well. Appropriate punishment for the Class Two violation failure to obey lawful and received instruction has been Adjudicated and accepted. Appropriate punishment for the Class One violation brought against you by Student Koscuisko will be administered by Student Koscuisko and the violation stricken from the Record. Under these circumstances your Fleet deferment is refused. The reduction of your Bond will be permitted to stand. It is prudent and proper by the Bench instruction, just and judicious in the eyes of the offending party. The Record is complete.”
It was official, then.
It was done.
The Administrator had declared the Record complete; no alteration would be permitted, now that the critical point was passed.
“You will be taken to Infirmary, there to receive appropriate medical care. The Controlled List trial will be scheduled later, depending upon your recovery. The Administration will decide the timing of other discipline after the Controlled List trial has been completed. You are remanded into custody. Dismissed.”
Robert St. Clare bowed in salute, a bow that betrayed him to his dizziness. He seemed to lose his balance and consciousness at one and the same time, crumpling slowly to fall forward across the Captain’s Bar. Tutor Chonis stepped up smartly, coming to attention in front of the table where Clellelan had the Record.
“This session of Administrator’s Disciplinary Hearing is concluded.”
Clellelan rose and left the room, and there was silence for as long as it took him to step down from the Command platform and clear the doorway at the back of Tutor’s Mess.
Then discipline dissolved into a chaotic mass of murmurs and moving feet, the immense unparalleled wonder of it all too much for any of them. Tutor Chonis raised his voice so that he could make himself heard over the noise, signaling with his hand for the litter to be brought forward. Joslire hadn’t seen the medical team before. Clellelan must have brought them, and left them to wait outside until it was all over.
“Sorlie Curran, take the prisoner to Infirmary. Joslire Curran, stand by. I want a word with you.”
Robert would test a new speak-serum, and he would not die of it — Koscuisko would see to that. That was what Koscuisko had been working on, that was what Koscuisko had offered to Tutor Chonis in exchange for Robert’s life. And Tutor Chonis would force Koscuisko to administer a beating, just to be sure that Koscuisko didn’t get any ideas into his head about getting his own way. St. Clare would not die of that either, and Koscuisko had done this impossible thing. Koscuisko who could read bodies with his hands and stop the grim wheel of Jurisdiction Fleet discipline and force it back on its unforgiving track. Koscuisko had done this. Robert was not to be tortured and killed.
Koscuisko was a sorcerer, and Joslire was afraid of him now, afraid as he had never been of any man on either end of a whip.
“As for the rest of you,” Chonis declared, stepping out of the way of the litter bearing the unconscious body of the salvaged man. “You will return to your duty stations not later than two eighths from now. That will be all. Joslire Curran.”
He needed two eighths, four eighths, six eighths to recover himself. He had to look after this Student, this sorcerer. How could he hope to conduct himself correctly in the presence of such a man?
Refuge could be taken in the forms of courtesy and discipline, regardless of the turmoil in his mind. “The Tutor requires, sir?”
Now more than ever the Tutor would need him, to report on Koscuisko’s mood and attitude.
Now more than ever he had to protect himself.
###
She’d planned on keeping an eye on the theater in order to be able to update Chonis if he called. She found instead that she was interested. The screen gave her a close-up on the body: she could see the gray spidery needles walking over the seminude body of the unconscious man, carrying the micro-lasers to the sites beneath the skin where the fault lay. Where the damage had been done. She’d done some microsurgery herself, although most of what they treated here was gross tissue damage; and she was fascinated by the speed, the skill, the confidence that Koscuisko — even enclosed in the operating chair — expressed with every motion of those thin gray wire-like probes. He never hesitated at the dermis level; he never seemed to reposition a probe; he never seemed to probe too deeply by accident, and have to come back out and try again. He knew the angles of approach he wanted, and he hit each and every one of them flawlessly, without a single misstep.
He hardly seemed to be working at all, it went so fast.
And when the laser fingers had traveled up the spine to nestle beneath the brain box at the base of the skull — the site of the most critical damage, where Noycannir had kicked her unconscious prisoner-surrogate in an apparent spasm of frustration — Koscuisko only slowed his pace a bit. The most delicate of all the surgical interventions, repair of critical connections at the cellular level, and Koscuisko only slowed down, as sure — as certain — as he’d been before, only more deliberate in respect to the more dangerous environment.
Then the surgical machine was moving away from the table, backing up against the wall. Chaymalt shot a startled glance at the chronometer on the wall — had it been that long? Already? She’d hardly been aware of the passage of time, Koscuisko’s absolute self-confidence had mesmerized her.
But it was done.
The scanner descended from the ceiling as the operating chair retreated, and tracked slowly up the torpid body on the table. Chaymalt coded the display abruptly, suddenly anxious that she know the criterms now, when she could just as well have waited for them. The scanner report began to scroll across the desk surface: residual bruises, torn muscle fiber, edema — but the neurological damage had been masked by surgical repair.
With the astonishing speed characteristic of successful microsurgery, the normal elect
rical activity of the nerves was already beginning to recover — for all the world as if the damaged tissue had not been functionally nerve-dead with shock and trauma three scant eights ago.
It was incredible.
Healing was neither instant or absolute, of course. All Koscuisko had really done had been to restore the system’s integrity in the places where it had been compromised by Noycannir’s assault. And he had done it with minimal surgical trauma, although the conventional standards recognized that the surgery could do as much damage as it undid, even in the most skilled of hands.
Ligrose Chaymalt knew as well as anyone how natural it was for newly graduated medical practitioners to overrate their own abilities, relative to more objective assessments.
This was the first time she could think of where the performance of a Student actually exceeded expectation.
Tracking complete, the scanner returned to its place in the ceiling, its statistical report processing into Standard language phrases as it did so. She could read the same information Koscuisko saw from within the operating chair: substantial restoration of neurological function. Baseline activity returning to normal, adjusting for effect of anesthesia. No significant operational trauma. Consciousness may safely be invoked within three days, physical therapy to be scheduled after completion of waking tests.
Prognosis excellent.
Her orderly was preparing the patient to return to the recovery room. Koscuisko had switched the surgical machine off; it unfolded from around him, the webbed restraints that had supported the weight of his body in suspension loosening gradually to ease his body to the floor. Chaymalt could not help staring at Koscuisko as the chair backed off and left him standing alone, the white of his under-blouse stark against the dark gray walls.
He looked completely centered in his life, a master of his craft, a surgeon of significant potential.
It was an obscene waste to abandon such skill to Inquisition.
###
Andrej stood alone in the operating theater fastening up his duty-blouse, drinking in the solitude, relishing the relative privacy of the now-empty surgery. Oh, there were monitors in place, he knew that — had this been an ordinary operating theater, there would necessarily have been monitors. It wasn’t that. From the time he’d arrived at Fleet Orientation Station Medical, he’d hardly been alone for a single moment; either because Joslire was in the next room or because he was in class. And he was alone now, alone to bask in the satisfaction of a surgical procedure well completed. Alone, to cradle the comfort of having helped to heal an injured man to himself, and to cherish the blessing in his heart.
He could not hold the pleasure long.
So sensitive had he become to the expectations and regulations that being alone began to worry him. Where was Joslire? Or where was Travis, for instance, in Joslire’s absence? What was going on out there, out in the working areas of the station, outside this sanctuary space?
He covered his face with his hands for a moment, then finger-combed his hair with a decisive gesture. Enough was enough. There would be sufficient with which to concern himself, he could be certain of that. It was time to return to the real world, harsh though it was. This surgery had been a brief respite of sorts, but there was still as much to be done, and as little to his liking, as there had been before.
Turning toward the sterile-lock door, Andrej saw Joslire Curran standing beyond the near-transparent membrane. At least it looked like Joslire to Andrej, and whomever it was bowed politely in salute, which rather strengthened the supposition.
Andrej went through.
“Well met, Mister Curran.” There was another Security post in the corridor, but she was nothing to do with Andrej, so he ignored her, beyond using a more formal address for Joslire in token of her presence. “Is it too early for third-meal?” Because he was hungry again. A little full of himself, just now perhaps, but surely he could be permitted a little egotistic self-congratulation under the circumstances?
Joslire looked as if he’d not been fed for a few days, though. Pale and drawn, with a glazed look in his eyes that seemed to speak to Andrej of a stunning shock of some sort. Oh, what now, what now?
What next?
But he knew better than to ask the question, at least in so many words.
“The officer’s third-meal shift is two hours old, the officer’s meal can be made available at any time. With respect, your Excellency . . . ”
That was odd. He wasn’t an Excellency outside of practical exercise theater, not yet, not to Fleet. Not to Joslire. “Yes?”
“Tutor Chonis has suggested that the officer may wish to provide an additional service in Infirmary, if the officer pleases. It was suggested that the officer might consent to take a moment, once the scheduled surgery was completed.”
Nor did Joslire use a direct form of address when he was paying attention to himself, no matter how many extra words there were to separate “your Excellency” from “if the officer pleases.” Surely he wasn’t still shaken by what had passed between them earlier?
“That which my Tutor has suggested, I must me receive as instruction.” It was actually a quote from Mergau Noycannir, not as if Joslire would know that. Andrej found Noycannir’s dialect rather engaging. It was her bullying, manipulative personality he found objectionable. “Let’s go, Mister Curran, lead on. Is this our guide?”
The Security post simply bowed, and took off, with Andrej and Joslire following up the rear. Through mazes of corridors and doors she led them, until Andrej felt a little dizzy. It wasn’t as if they needed to keep the location secret from him. He didn’t know where he was in the first place. How would he even know the difference, if they’d led him around the spiral steps for some obscure Security joke?
No matter.
Except that it kept him from his supper, and he wanted to go see Tutor Chonis, just to test once more whether there was to be any hope at all for his unfortunate prisoner-surrogate.
If they refused his offer, he would not be in honor bound to support the Controlled List, which was an abomination beneath the Canopy. He could hold himself stainless, in at least that one piece of his larger degradation; and it would be good to have some little thing in which he could comfort himself that he was not utterly disgraced. But if they refused his offer — an innocent man would suffer horribly, and probably die, and Andrej could not make himself believe that it was worth it that a man should die if only he could avoid the Controlled List.
Finally a long corridor with a clearly visible door at the far end — the way out. Oddly enough, the same Security team that he had had with him for that fateful exercise — two days ago? Just yesterday? — was waiting in the hallway as they came around the comer. Sorlie Curran and the rest, Andrej was sure of it. They were too busy saluting him to allow him any time to question them, however, because Sorlie Curran had apparently signaled at the door, and Joslire behind him was still moving at too brisk a pace for Andrej to feel confident of his ability to put a brake on the man’s momentum before he ran Andrej down.
All right.
Into the room, then.
A minor surgery facility, clearly enough, with a body on the levels and a technician standing by with a pharmacy unit while two orderlies worked at cleaning the wounds of a man who had been beaten. It all looked quite commonplace to Andrej. What was the point behind all this?
“Attention to the officer,” Sorlie Curran called sharply, from behind him. The two orderlies backed away from the levels quickly, almost as if they were timid about something. Andrej acknowledged their salutes quickly, waving them off.
He was beginning to have an idea.
“What is this man’s status? . . . Best close the door.” He advanced on the body that lay on the levels, unsure of how interested he really was in looking at the evidence. Swollen flesh and fiery inflammation two and three days old, bruises upon bruises, welts upon welts. A shoulder swollen and livid with insult, striped and bloodied with blows from a whip that had struck just
exactly where it would hurt the most. An ugly beating all ‘round, and Andrej recognized his handiwork, although he shuddered to see it. They had brought him to St. Clare. Why?
One of the orderlies, turning the record-monitor at the head of the levels so that he could see the display more clearly, gestured nervously and saluted once again. What in the name of all Saints were they so jumpy about? The medical record was clear enough. But the status block had a continuation code; frowning, Andrej keyed the scroller to see what it was that was causing such consternation.
ROBERT ST. CLARE, the status block said. BOND-INVOLUNTARY, CURRENT OFFICER OF ASSIGNMENT STUDENT ANDREJ KOSCUISKO. LAST RECORDED ACTION, ADJUDICATION OF PUNISHMENT FOR A CLASS TWO VIOLATION, EVALUATION DUTY FOR CONTROLLED LIST SPEAK-SERUM. TO BE RETURNED TO DUTY STATUS AT ASSIGNED OFFICER’S DISCRETION TO STAND EVALUATION DUTY, OUTSTANDING CLASS ONE VIOLATION PENDING, TO BE STRICKEN FROM THE RECORD. BY THE BENCH INSTRUCTION.
St. Clare was his?
“Joslire, what does this mean?” he asked in a hushed whisper. “I cannot trust myself to understand.” Or to face the bargain he had made without cringing away from what he had sworn to do. What he would do.
“With respect. Sir.” Not that Joslire sounded much better, at the moment. “The Administrator has permitted St. Clare to test his Excellency’s . . . the officer’s new speak-serum, in lieu of other Class Two discipline. It is on Record.”
And there could be no hidden trick or reversal if it was on Record. They meant to have what he had offered them, and how could he grudge it when they had delivered St. Clare from the sin that Andrej had committed against him?
He was numb with the accumulated shocks his spirit had sustained over the past two days.
An Exchange of Hostages Page 22
